


Anti-Brian

by popfly



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Gapfillerpalooza, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-12
Updated: 2005-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-19 16:05:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popfly/pseuds/popfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gapfiller for season two, episode eighteen. Ethan is the Anti-Brian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anti-Brian

Justin felt like he couldn't breathe.

It wasn't an asthma attack, he knew that much. Asthma attacks were burning and panicked desperation to get a lungful of air, tears stinging his eyes and fingers clenching and unclenching spasmodically. This was less panicked and more anxious, with no tears and no clenching fingers. Just a lump in his throat and his heart thumping in his chest and sweat coating his palms.

Ethan's apartment smelled like unfinished wood and ten-cent stick incense, the kind that all smelled the same despite names like nag champa and patchoulli. Justin had hated the smell at first, probably instinctively, the same way he hated the clutter and the threadbare furniture. It was all so ... it was all so anti-Brian, if Justin was honest, and his first impression was not a good one. But the longer he had stood in the living room/kitchen/bedroom/music room the more he had come to love that every flat surface was covered in things, that you could tell where the cat slept by the layer of fur left behind, that everything looked used, lived-in. 

Justin was so accustomed to polished wood and fine leather, gleaming fixtures and everything being spotless all the time. He was used to wiping his fingerprints from the counter tops almost compulsively because he hated seeing them marring the shining surface. Used to stacking things neatly at the desk or on the coffee table to save the annoyance of Brian's continuous sighing if Justin's sketches were covering his paperwork. Used to space and sparsity and the smell of expensive _everything_. 

The picnic had to be held on the floor because the only table Ethan had that was big enough for the spread was his coffee table. So they sprawled out on either side of it and spread Ritz crackers with sharp cheddar cheese spread. Justin talked around his food, something he'd been well-trained not to do, because he had this burning need to get words out, to tell, to talk. He felt like he hadn't had a conversation in _years_ , which was ridiculous because he'd spent many hours in the past couple of days talking to Daphne, and he'd chatted with his mom just that morning. But with Ethan it was different. Ethan tipped a shoulder towards him, stared at his eyes or his lips, absorbed himself in whatever Justin was saying. He didn't just respond in the right places with a nod or a hum, he asked questions, he interrupted to find out more.

He was interested.

Justin was more intoxicated on that than the cheap wine.

That's when the lump rose and the thumping started and his palms started sweating. He felt like he was being smothered by the smell of the apartment and the taste of the wine and the feel of the floor under his hip bone, the lazy curl of Ethan's lips when he smiled.

It was all so ... so anti-Brian. 

He tried to duplicate the feeling in the loft, partially because he wanted to have that feeling with Brian, and not just while they were fucking, but mostly because he didn't want to have it with Ethan. He knew he was acting out of guilt, that he was being ridiculous, and he carried his bags home from the market with his head hung low. He put Ethan's CD in the stereo but couldn't press play, just laid out the cushions and then set out the candles in total silence, waiting for Brian to get home.

He knew before the door even slid open that it was all wrong. There was that smell of expensive furnishings and Brian that Justin normally loved. The picnic looked out of place on floors so well polished you could practically see your reflection on them. It was a blemish, but Justin felt the hot, itchy necessity of it under his skin and the near-hysterical elation when Brian flopped down on a cushion with his suit coat unbuttoned.

The moment was ruined by one stupid word, and Justin could have stabbed himself with one of the butter knives he'd brought out for the cheese. Instead he snuffed out the candles and stood in the middle of the loft, in the middle of the wide sparse space, and stared down at his picnic.

He pressed play on the stereo before slowly putting everything away. When the floor was a gleaming expanse of nothingness again, he left. He ignored the lure of Babylon on what he assumed was principle and veered into the diner. He ordered something heavy and hot that was as far from crackers and cheese as possible, and took comfort in the familiar clutter and noise and Debbie's bright wig bobbing from table to table.

He didn't go to Ethan's that night but a few nights later, showing up at his door with the excuse of wanting his song. What he really wanted was that feeling back, the sweaty palms, the lump in his throat, the thumping, constricting, smothered feeling. 

It was so anti-Brian. And Justin needed it so badly he ached with it.

The End


End file.
